Historia de la Rosa
by Lady Akemi
Summary: My version of Lady Une's origins. My guess is that this fic will eventually expand to include at least two separate stories, one set before and one during the TV series. That depends on how well this one goes over, though.
1. Prologue

Hey everyone. This is the prologue to a fairly long fic about Lady Une's origins. If people really like it I may expand it to include the events of the TV series and EW, but we'll see. I apologize in advance for any spelling errors. I've checked this over several times, but my computer freezes whenever I try to run the spell checker.   
  
Colony L2C248  
AC 173  
  
On New Year's day the sun rose in a burst of fiberoptic glory. The colony's habitation engineers had really outdone themselves, painstakingly setting the system's perameters so that at precisely six thirty-two A.M., the sky began to glow with a rich assortment of hues ranging from palest pink to flaming orange. Those citizens who were neither too sleepy nor too hung over to be oblivious to the phenomenon watched in delight as the artificial sun increased at their false horizon until it's surprisingly realistic glow bathed the entire colony.   
  
Mathew Une watched the event from a small window in the upper story of his mother's somewhat rundown cottage. He was torn between disgust and appreciation as his eyes took in the spectacular display. It was certainly beautiful, but those who had worked late into the night to orchestrate such an unusually vivid sunrise ought to have been at home, savoring the start of another year with the ones they loved. A sour smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in response to his uncharacteristically conservative thoughts. Raising a hand to the glass he traced a lazy spiral pattern in the film of condensation his breath had left on the pane. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he considered the irony of his reaction. For he himself had spent the majority of the past ten years away from his family, moving from place to place on Earth and among the colonies in his attempt to aid the rapidly growing resistance movement. In fact, this was the first Christmas in a decade he had spent with his wife, and the holiday marked only the second time in twelve months that he had been able to spare time from his duties to visit her. The only other time had been in March, and that was when all the trouble had begun.   
  
Turning resolutely from the window, Mathew confronted the inert form lying on the bed in the corner of the room. The ancient loking frame and a small wooden chair were the only pieces of furniture that could fit into the tiny apartment, save a narrow bookshelf mounted on the far wall. His mother, her graying hair falling limply about her tired face, sat hunched forward in the chair, hands clasped between her knees. A bowl of rapidly cooling water sat on the floor at her feet, a limp rag dangling out over one side. As he turned she looked up, her eyes meeting his in a mute apology.   
  
"I did what I could," she said after a pause, gesturing halfheartedly toward the still form on the bed.   
  
"I know."  
  
"Matt..."  
  
"Mother, it wasn't your fault. She was never very strong to begin with, and after such a long ordeal..." Suddenly, his fist shot out and connected with the white plaster wall, producing a sharp crack and eliciting a startled gasp from the tired old woman. "Why didn't she tell me! I could have come home, there was nothing so urgent to be done that it couldn't have been assigned elsewhere..." Feeling both emotionally and physically spent, he allowed his tired body to lean heavily against the window frame.   
  
"You know why. You've always made it patently clear that your missions come first, no matter what. This is the price you pay." Her words stung like the lash of a whip, but he recognized the truth in them and bit back the equally spiteful rejoinder that was forming on his lips.  
  
"Matt. I'm sorry." Her brown eyes began to fill with tears. "That was shameful of me..."  
  
She was silenced by a peremptory wave of his hand. "You're right. Granted, you could have found a more appropriate time to catalog my sins, but the fact remains that I brought at least some measure of this problem upon myself."   
  
Both were silent for several minutes-she gazing distractedly at her folded hands, he trying not to focus his gaze on the rapidly stiffening body of his dead wife.   
  
The silence was finally broken by a tentative wail from beyond the partially open door. His mother rose instantly, prepared to respond as best she could to the hungry summons of the child who would never know true maternal care. With one hand on the doorknob she glanced back over her shoulder, pointedly seeking her son's averted gaze.   
  
"Say your goodbyes now, Matt. They'll be here in less than half an hour."   
  
He gave no indication of having heard her, and with a soft sigh she exited the room, softly closing the door. The child's cries grew only somewhat fainter with this added barrier and he raised his hands to his ears, desperately hoping to drown out the sound of his mistake.   
  
"Annie, forgive me."  
  
No answer. Of course he had not been expecting one, but the silence only served to heighten the emotional tension rapidly mounting within Mathew's tired body. Slowly raising his head he forced himself to regard her-pale and motionless in the growing light.   
  
"Annie, did you even suspect it would end this way?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"You-you prepared yourself for the news of my death...for capture and possible torture if our connection were to be discovered. But did you ever imagine that you'd end up dying on what should have been the happiest day of your life?"  
  
Silence reigned again, and Mathew dragged a hand through his disorderly auburn locks. She had loved his hair-during the innocent days of their courtship she had liked to tease him by joking that she had merely fallen in love with his beautiful curls.   
  
"Do you think she'll look like me, Annie?"  
  
He could hear the sounds his mother was making downstairs-the clattering of metal pans as she prepared some milk for the child. The tearless howls had receded even more, and he supposed that she must have brought the baby into the kitchen with her.   
  
"I'm not gonna keep it, Annie. I can't. Forgive me darling, but you were enough of a liability."  
  
Again, silence. But for some bizarre reason Mathew felt that it's composition had changed. A slight drop in the air pressure perhaps, or maybe a degree or two decrease in temperature. But to his exhausted senses the air in the room felt-reproachful?  
  
"Look Annie. We decided long ago that children weren't a possibility. It would be too dangerous. Don't look at me like that-ugh, am I going crazy, you can't be looking at me. Annie. Annie!"  
  
A sudden crash echoed up from the kitchen, followed by several moments of complete silence. Then the crying began again, AND Mathew wondered how it could possibly seem even louder now than before. Shaking his head, he fought to dispel the sudden repressive feeling that had overcome him so suddenly, causing him to behave in such an irrational manner. Annie was dead, and no amount of talking or coaxing or shouting was going to elicit a response from her delicate lips.   
  
And yet it was still there, somewhere at the back of his conscious mind. That feeling of silent reproach, made worse because there was no one there to express it but himself. Advancing a few steps he came to stand by the head of the bed, gazing down at Annie's serene face. His mind replayed the horrible memory of her pain-racked countenance as she expended the last of her strength in the effort to expel their daughter into the frigid air of the world. His hands ached to caress her forhead, but his mind refused to allow the fingers to move. She would be cold. His last memory of touching her should not be of touching a lifeless shell.  
  
There it was again. The constricted, repressed feeling that he couldn't place.  
  
"What do you want me to do!" he exploded, careful to keep his voice at a volume that would be inaudible from the kitchen. "I can't keep it, Annie."  
  
As he waited for the response that would never come, Mathew heard the baby's wails cease as suddenly as they had begun. The stillness that ensued seemed to fill the whole house, seeping into every chink and cupboard, and into the depths of his soul. Then he heard it, the long-forgotten melody drifting up through the dusty vents to tug at his heart. The words were in a language he had nearly forgotten, but their sound invoked a host of fond memories.   
  
His mother was singing.  
  
For I would wander weary miles,  
Would welcome ridicule my child,  
To simply see the sunrise of your smile,  
To see the light behind your eyes,  
The happy thought that makes you fly,  
Yes I would wander weary miles,,  
To simply see the sunrise of your smile.  
  
The song was in English, a tongue no longer used with much frequency following the earth sphere's acceptance of Basic, a combination of the five major world languages, in AC 30. Mathew's family was of German descent, but for some reason his mother had always been fascinated with English, and had studied it the way religious scholars often studied Hebrew. She had unearthed the lyrics to many of the lullabies she knew on the historical database the Alliance had set up. This had been his favorite, because of it's sweet melody. When as a child he had taken up the piano, this lullaby was the first full-length song he had learned to play.   
  
Maybe the baby would learn to love it too.   
  
Suddenly Mathew made a decision. Glancing down once more at the lifeless body of his beloved wife, he raised his hand in the gesture that members of the movement used as a discrete salute. For in the end, she had been the warrior, and he knew it.  
  
"I promise," he said, then pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully from the room.  
  
  
------------*END*------------  
  
Well? This is merely the prologue, but what do you think? Yes, I will explain why she becomes Lady Une-but I wanted to reconcile the whole concept of Anne and Une. Sorry if this chapter was a bit too sentimental-I just wanted to infuse the dear Lady's life with a little more tragedy. Heh. If this sucked please tell me, so I won't waste my time writing more chapters.   
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of it's characters. Come on, if you don't know that you have simply got to be too stupid to be a lawyer.   
  
Oh Yeah. The lullaby is actually a song by Michael Card. If you want the rest of the lyrics I'll send them to you, just E-mail me.   
  
Domo Arigato,  
Lady Akemi 


	2. The Dawning

Colony L2C248  
AC 177  
  
  
The Dawning  
  
  
With a satisfied grunt, four-year-old Anne flopped down on the moist grass in her grandmother's rose garden and proudly surveyed the destruction she had just wrought. The graceful stems of some dozen plants had been cruelly severed, and their remains protruded from the ground like so many spiny carrot heads. Only, Anne thought, they weren't fluffy enough.   
  
Stacked neatly off to one side were the flowers that had once belonged to the forlorn looking stems. She hoped Gram wouldn't be too upset, but she hadn't been able to figure out another way to avoid scratching her hands on the scores of tiny thorns that stuck out of the otherwise beautiful roses. Idly she played with the small pair of garden sheers she had been given as a birthday present. This had been the first time she'd had the opportunity to use them, since there weren't any flowers to cut in January. It was May now, and her grandmother's garden was full of all sorts of pretty growing things, most of which smelled as good as they looked.   
  
On Friday the sisters who ran the kindergarten Anne attended had talked about mothers' day. All the other children had colored cards and made little paper baskets for their mothers, but Anne had neither desired nor been forced to participate. Sister Gretchen had looked disapprovingly at her as she played quietly in a corner, but Sister Clara had said something in a low voice that the little girl couldn't hear, and Sister Gretchen hadn't reprimanded her.   
  
Anne looked up at the semi-transparent dome that protected the frail, artificial habitat that was her world from the vacuum of space. At night it was nearly clear, so that the colony citizens could see Earth and the moon, and even a few stars. During the day it became completely opaque, and environmental control experts worked constantly to ensure that it resembled the daytime sky of Earth as much as possible. She liked to look at the Earth at night, and was fascinated by the concept of the fiberoptics that could make   
it seem as though the sun was really tracing a brilliant path across the sky. But her favorite was that time right before the colony's false dawn, when the dome was just beginning to darken and the soft blue glow of Earth was gradually fading into the forced azure of the daytime sky. This morning she watched the transformation in rapt interest, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when Earth disappeared and the make believe sun rose above the nonexistent horizon.   
  
When it was over, and the almost convincingly blue sky was just beginning to lighten, Anne set about collecting the roses she had cut. Her small fingers nimbly avoided the thorns as she deftly bound the bouquet together with a scrap of white ribbon she had found in Gram's ragbag. Through the open kitchen window she could hear her beginning to prepare their breakfast. The dull clatter of pans and the gentle clinking of china made Anne smile. She had wanted to cook something special for Gram this morning, but upon padding into the kitchen earlier she had remembered that she wasn't quite tall enough to reach the cupboards where the cereal and bread were kept. Since she wasn't strong enough to move a chair to stand on, Anne had been forced to abandon that idea.   
  
Carefully grasping her gift she made her way back toward the house. Wanting more than anything for Gram to be surprised, she made sure to keep out of the line of sight afforded by the kitchen's large picture window. Briefly she paused outside the back door, dutifully wiping her slightly muddy feet on the much battered welcome mat. All in all, Anne figured she'd been pretty clever this morning, since the old door creaked on it's ancient hinges, and she had been hard pressed to open it without waking her grandmother. She'd been able to do so only by patiently widening the gap one inch at a time until it was just big enough for her lithe body to slip through. Now, however, she shoved it wide, heedless of it's screeching protests.   
  
"Why Anne darling, what on earth where you...Oh." Melody Une had been standing at the sink, carefully rinsing several apples beneath a stream of cool water from the faucet. Upon hearing the door open she turned slightly, still holding the fruit, to regard her granddaughter with some surprise. Ordinarily, Anne was not prone to getting out of bed before breakfast was ready. However, before she had quite finished voicing her inquiry into the cause of such an odd phenomenon her gaze fell on the bundle of roses the child was grasping in one slightly dirty hand.   
  
"My roses!" Dismayed, Melody took in the unevenly hacked stems and half-open buds. She hardly dared to think of what her prized rose beds must look like. She might as well kiss her title as the neighborhood's best gardener goodbye. For a moment she was at a loss for words, surprisingly uncertainhow to reprimand Anne for such an infraction. After all, the child hadn't really meant any harm=--she herself had plucked flowers from her grandmothers' garden at about the same age. And for goodness' sake, the girl was still wearing her pajamas! Well, that at least was simple. Anne knew better than to go outside without being properly clothed. Just as Melody opened her mouth to deliver a stern lecture on the patent impropriety of her granddaughters' early morning activities, Anne skipped forward into the center of the kitchen and proudly held up the boquet   
  
"Happy mother's day, Gram."   
  
Reaching behind her, Melody shut off the faucet and laid the apples in a painted dish beside the sink. Briefly consulting the callender mounted on the pantry door she noted that it was in fact the second Sunday in May. Suddenly, Melody felt a lump forming in her throat. Advancing slowly to the middle of the modestly sized kitchen, she knelt on the tiled floor and held out her arms to Ann.  
  
The child, who had watched her grandmother's facial expression change from shocked to disapproving, now saw it relax into a somewhat teary smile. At first Anne had been afraid that she had made a terrible miscalculation, but now, reassured, she laid the roses gently on the kitchen floor and ran into Melody's embrace. They sat like that for a moment, enjoying the other's proximity. A lone bird began to whistle his morning song outside the window. His joyful chirping mingled with the ticking of the mantle clock and the smell of fresh bread and spices.   
  
"You are such a dear child, Anne," her grandmother murmured into the girl's soft brown locks.  
  
Pulling away slightly, Anne explained, "Well, I wanted to make breakfast, but I couldn't reach the cereal and things, so I decided to give you flowers." Then, hesitantly nibbling on one grubby fingertip she asked, "you're not mad about the roses, are you Gram?"  
  
Rising from the floor, Melody shook her head. "No baby, but next time I'd prefer you not to cut things from the garden without asking, alright?"  
  
"But if I'da asked, it wouldn't be a surprise!"  
  
"I know, but next time you need to get my permission, ok?"  
  
Recognizing the tone of her grandmother's voice as one that clearly indicated the futility of any argument, Anne nodded her acquiescence.   
  
"Good. Now, I want you to go upstairs and wash your hands very, very well. Then I wan you to get dressed and hurry back down, because breakfast is nearly ready."  
  
Anne's brow furrowed in mild perplexity. "But I can't do the buttons at the back of my church dress, Gram. Will you help me?"  
  
There was a long pause. Melody turned back to the sink and reached for another pair of apples to wash. Keeping her voice carefully neutral she said, "we're not going to church today, Annie."  
  
"How come?"   
  
"Because we're having company. Now hurry up an get dressed please."  
  
"Who's coming?" inquired the little girl, catching hold of one of the cupboard doors and using her own body weight to swing it and herself from side to side in lazy arcs.   
  
Another long pause. "Your uncle Mathew. Now go get dressed...Anne Elizabeth Une, I've told you before not to swing on that door!"  
  
The reprimand seemed to be lost on Anne. "Yay! I get to meet uncle Mathew! Is he nice, Gram? Will he tell the story about falling in the pond, like you do?"  
  
"Perhaps. Quit stalling. You're oatmeal will get cold if you don't hurry."  
  
Something about her grandmother's tone made Anne feel suddenly very nervous. Carefully closing the cupboard, she shot a questioning look at Melody's back, then headed up the narrow staircase. It creaked, like the door, and Anne deftly hopped from one side of each step to the other, trying to keep moving upward without stepping on one of the noisy parts.   
  
Melody listened to the child's light footfalls receding down the second story hallway. An involuntary sigh escaped her lips as she thought of what this days coming events might mean to her vivacious little charge. Anne had no problem reconciling the fact that Melody was not her biological mother with the idea that she was her mother in practice. That had been a blessing, since Melody had not yet been forced to confront the task of explaining the absence of the child's real mother and father. But Mathew would arrive today. He had convinced her to tell the little girl that he was her uncle, a ruse which Melody knew would end up causing problems in the long run. It wasn't the fib that bothered her so much as It was the fact that Mathew fully intended to disclose his true relationship to Anne one day. Such a revelation could potentially be very hurtful for someone as sensitive as she. Melody had tried, as best she could without revealing too much, to introduce Anne to her father/uncle through stories of his youth. The child had seldom asked about her biological parents, content to hear any story as long as it was funny and kept her from having to go to bed on time. Melody hoped Anne's lack of curiosity about her origins would last for another year or two, but she doubted it. The child was far more intelligent than most, and would soon realize that she was hiding something.   
  
Having cleansed the remainder of the fruit, Melody began to set the table. Perhaps Mathew might never tell her. He had seemed so certain, when she'd spoken to him in November, that the struggle to free the colonies from the domination of the Alliance would be over within a decade. Then he could come home. He'd said the same thing in the late sixties, she remembered. He might have been right, too, had it not been for Heero Yuy's assassination. Tears stung her eyes at the thought of how close they'd come to being free. And now...she set the fruit bowl in the center of the table with extra emphasis, irritated by the concept that those who had once proposed peace with such clear countenances were now striving to overthrow the Alliance by force. And Mathew was one of them.   
  
Just then she heard a firm knocking at the front door. Swiftly untying her apron, Melody hung it on a hook just inside the pantry. Pausing in the living room just long enough to smooth the skirt of her plain blue dress before the mirror, she strode resolutely into the front hallway to admit her son.   
  
Momentarily forgotten, Annes bouquet of roses still lay on the kitchen floor.   
  
------------*END*------------  
  
Well? Sorry this chapter was a bit dull. Within the next two things will speed up quite a bit. I just needed this one to sort of set the stage. Comments? Constructive criticism? Pleeease review!  
  
Disclaimer. Right. If you really want one go read the prologue and quit wasting my time.   
  
Domo Arigato,  
Lady Akemi 


	3. Oatmeal and the Fragments of Memories

My computer is still on the fritz, so please bear with the lack of spell checking...I caught most of the mistakes, I think, but I'm sure some are still lurking.   
  
------------  
Colony L2C248  
AC 177  
  
  
Oatmeal and the Fragments of Memories  
  
  
Up in her tiny bedroom, Anne allowed herself the luxury of bouncing for several minutes on the unmade bed. Gram would flip out if she knew, but Anne could hear her coming up the creaky steps and stop jumping in time if she had to.   
  
Uncle Mathew was coming!  
  
The child wasn't quite sure why she was so happy. After all, she'd never actually met her uncle before. But a framed picture of him standing with a pretty lady hung above the fireplace, and he looked nice. Gram was always telling her stories about him. Anne's favorite involved him attempting to fish, losing his balance on the slippery bank, and falling into a pond.   
  
When she grew tired of bouncing, Anne slid off the bed and headed for the bathroom. Gram had set an old wooden stool in front of the sink so she could reach the soap and water. She liked to play in the bubbles the soap made, but only when the water was warm. Today it was cold, so she washed her face and hands quickly, then dried them on a rather scratchy towel that Gram always kept hanging behind the bathroom door.   
  
"Uncle Mathew's coming!" she sang to the cat, who was lying in his habitual position beneath the leaky faucet in the tub. Today was supposed to be hot, and the rather obese animal was already reaping the benefits of the intermittently dripping tap.   
  
Just as she was exiting the bathroom, Anne heard a knock at the front door. Racing to the top of the stairs, she peered down into the living room through the banister railing. From that angle she couldn't see much, but she heard the swish of Gram's skirt as she passed into the front hallway from the kitchen.   
  
"Good morning, Mathew."  
  
"Good morning mother."  
  
Anne could hear the two of them embracing and longed to run down and join in their reunion. But Gram had told her to get dressed, and she'd be mad if she came down in her pajamas. Scurrying back to her bedroom, the child rapidly donned the first two articles of clothing she could find-a pair of pale blue sweatpants and a pink t-shirt. Satisfied that she had fulfilled her grandmother's request, Anne headed downstairs.   
  
*****  
  
Melody studied her son's rugged countenance. He was only in his mid thirties, but already the strains of the life he led were manifesting themselves in a fine network of wrinkles. Despite his worn out appearance, the blue eyes still shone with a vivacious intensity that made him seem like a boy, not a widower.   
  
"You're getting thin."  
  
"Really? I've been on assignment a lot lately-the food at the post I infiltrated last month was pretty good."  
  
There was silence for a moment, as mother and son regarded one another. She wondered if Mathew had any inkling of how much his child had grown in the four years since her birth. He hadn't been home since then. It had been his longest absence ever, and Melody knew why. His phone calls were few and far between, but each time she heard his voice through the comlink there was no mistaking the wistfulness of his tone whenever they spoke about Anne. He had always been somewhat closed-seldom confiding in anyone. But she knew him. He was like his father, and would let himself be eaten away by emotions he wouldn't even confess to himself rather than search his soul and find release.   
  
He had confided in Anne. Melody hadn't been jealous of their closeness-there was no need. Children grew up and got married, it was merely a fact of life. Her own husband had died very young-Mathew had been their only child, born six months after his father's demise. Melody felt a wave of nausea surge through her at the memory of those days of terror.   
  
Anne's parents, both of whom had been soldiers, had been killed during an engagement on Earth when their daughter was eighteen. She had seemed perfectly willing to stay with Melody during Mathew's long absences, and the two had kept one another company. God how she missed her.   
  
Irritated with herself, Melody yanked her attention back to the present. Her son was standing before her, dressed in a battered sweatshirt and a pair of bluejeans. One would never know he was a revolutionary. He looked like any other middle-aged man. But of course, that was the point.   
  
"Well, don't just stand there. Come in and sit down. Breakfast is nearly ready." She led the way into the kitchen, motioning for him to leave his bag in the front hallway as they passed through the swinging door.   
  
"It smells great."  
  
"It's only oatmeal. You hate oatmeal."  
  
"Compared to some of the stuff I've been forced to consume, mother, oatmeal sounds just fine. What's this?" he stooped to pick up the bundle of roses Anne had deposited on the kitchen floor.   
  
"Oh. I forgot all about them. Anne gave them to me for mother's day." Unconsciously, Melody's hand crept up to the side of her face and one caloused finger began idly twirling a few loose strands of graying hair. She set the bouquet on the counter, making a mental note to put it in water before the half grown flowers began to look more pathetic than they already did.   
  
"Really?" The tone of his voice implied that his thoughts were far away. "How nice." Then, turning the full intensity of his azure gaze upon her Mathew inquired, "So how is the baby, anyway?"  
  
As if on cue, the door opened a tiny crack and Anne's head poked through. Melody was amused to note that the girl had opted to wear the two least compatible items in her wardrobe.   
  
"I'm all dressed Gram. Can we eat now?"  
  
Mathew was standing with his back to the door. For several seconds he did not turn around, and Melody was surprised to see the almost fearful look in his eyes. When he finally moved to face his daughter she was gazing at him with a decidedly impish mixture of surprise and interest.   
  
"Anne?" He asked.   
  
Melody thought she imagined a slight crack in his voice.   
  
"Yup."   
  
She stepped around the door, kicking it shut behind her with one small bare foot. Eyeing her charge's uncombed hair and lack of footwear, Melody made a mental note to scold the girl later for her more than slightly disheveled appearance. For the time being, however, she was too interested in what was passing between her son and his child to comment on Anne's habitual lapse in proper grooming.   
  
"You're a lot taller than in the picture,, Anne commented, craning her neck up to look into Mathew's face. "And you've got sticking out cheekbones."  
  
"Anne Elizabeth..." Melody began, appalled by the child's lack of manners.   
  
"No, mother, it's all right."   
  
Frowning, Melody put her hands on her hips, but refrained from voicing the remainder of the stern lecture she had been about to deliver.   
  
Mathew knelt beside his daughter, carefully keeping several feet between them. "There, now am I as short as in the picture?" he asked, allowing a note of amusement to creep into his voice.   
  
Anne surveyed him critically for a moment before shaking her head.  
  
"No. Picture people are Really, Really little." She brought both hands out from behind her back where she'd been clasping them and measured a length no bigger than that of an ice cream cone.   
  
Mathew pretended to scrunch down as far as he could, curving his shoulders in and tucking his head down. Melody gave an amused snort and turned to the stove, satisfied that the introduction she had feared would be so awkward had turned out to be practically effortless.   
  
With a feigned sigh of exasperation, Mathew slouched forward in defeat. "Now I guess you're not going to like me, are you? I have sticking out cheekbones and I'm too big." Though he was obviously amused, Mathew made a valiant and decidedly comical attempt to look crestfallen.   
  
Anne giggled. She was trying her hardest to act grown up, but Uncle Mathew was just so funny.  
  
"Well, since you tried so hard I guess it's ok that you're so big," she conceded, putting her hands on her hips in unconscious mimicry of her grandmother.   
  
For a moment silence reigned as father and daughter both considered what to say next. Then, catching sight of the steaming bowls of oatmeal Melody was setting on the table, Anne exclaimed, "Look Uncle Mathew! It's breakfast time!"  
  
Without waiting for a reply, the child scurried past him and ran around to the far side of the table. With a slightly awkward bounce she clambered up onto the chair, letting her legs dangle over the edge. Momentarily distracted from her quest for food, Anne turned to her grandmother and Inquired, "When am I gonna be tall enough to touch the floor?"  
  
Mathew had risen also, and was carefully dusting the faint traces of dirt off his trousers. He paused for a moment to exchange an amused glance with Melody, who replied, "You ask me this every morning, Anne. Do you know, there's an old saying that a watched pot never boils?"  
  
Picking up her spoon, Anne scooped a large mound of oatmeal into her mouth. Around the sticky mass she mumbled, "What's a watch pot?"  
  
Sliding into the chair opposite Anne, Mathew stifled a chuckle.   
  
"A WATCHED POT," he enunciated carefully. "Your grandmother means that people who are cooking sometimes think that there food is warming up really slowly because they look at the pot so often."  
  
Shoveling another spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth, Anne looked perplexed for a moment, then nodded enthusiastically.   
  
"I get it," she announced proudly, as a dribble of oatmeal traced a leisurely path down her chin from the corner of her mouth. "If I keep waiting to grow I won't notice when I do, right?"  
  
"Exactly," replied melody, handing the child a napkin. "Wipe your face, Annie, and please don't talk with your mouth full." Pulling out a chair she seated herself at the table, then stood up again and went to one of the cupboards above the sink.  
  
"Watcha doing, Gram?" Anne wanted to know, carefully dabbing at the stray oatmeal on her chin and fingers.  
  
Opening the plain wooden cabinet, Melody reached in and took down a delicate crystal vase. Swiveling around in his chair, Mathew watched her, a look of mixed pain and pleasure on his face.   
  
"That's the one I gave..." his voice trailed off as Melody made a peremptory gesture with her left hand.   
  
"Who?" inquired Anne, attempting to raise herself up in the chair so that she could see over Mathew's shoulder.  
  
Turning back around, Mathew regarded his child. Her hair was the same color as her mother's had been, and her eyes were the same soft brown. The fine bones and delicate complexion seemed to foretell a considerable amount of feminine beauty once Anne reached adolescence.   
  
"I gave that vase to your aunt, Annie. It came from Earth-I bought it for our first anniversary."   
  
"Oh."   
  
Anne paused mid chew, momentarily afraid that she had said something to upset her uncle. She knew her aunt was dead-Gram had explained to her all about the pretty brown-haired lady in the picture with uncle Mathew. Gram didn't seem to like to talk about Aunt Anne-sometimes she even looked like she wanted to cry-so maybe uncle Mathew didn't want to talk about her either. Should she apologize? Gram said she always ought to apologize if she thought she'd said something that would hurt somebody else's feelings.   
  
As if sensing her apprehension, Mathew bent his attention toward his breakfast, studiously making sure not to let his daughter see the outward signs of the emotional storm raging within him at that moment. Recently, for the first time since her birth, he was beginning to wonder if concealing the truth of his identity from Anne had been the right thing to do. At the outset he had told himself that he was merely protecting her. Should anything befall him during the course of one of his many dangerous assignments, she would only have cause to regret him as a little known family member. But as time passed, and his grief over her mother's death had settled from a searing pain into a dull heartache, Mathew had begun to realize that his wish to shut little Anne out of his life was more the result of his own feelings of regret and anger than it was the true product of paternal concern.   
  
His mother had disapproved. She had never been one to beat around the bush, and when he had descended the rickety steps the morning after his wife's death and informed her of his intentions, Mathew had been almost certain that but for the newborn baby in her arms Melody would have thrown something at him. Nothing serious, perhaps only an apple or a pear from the fruit bowl beside the pan of warm milk on the kitchen table. But the blazing fury in her eyes and the tremor in her voice when she had called him a self centered coward had hurt him more than any physical assault would have done.   
  
Melody had adored Anne, unlike most mothers in law, whom Mathew supposed must view their husband's brides as human scissors, splicing the close bonds between parent and child. The two women had shared a rapport closer than even that of most lifelong friends, and Mathew had been glad, since they had been sources of solace to one another during his long absences. Anne's death had pained Melody greatly, but the circumstances that surrounded it had, fortunately, provided her with another object of love to fill the void in her heart.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Mathew watched his mother, sensible for the first time of how much older she seemed compared with the last time he'd seen her. Her once spectacular features, that some had even deemed aristocratic, were definitely beginning to show the wear of the passage of time. She could not afford the expensive beauty treatments wealthier women used to keep their aging skin looking youthful, but he suspected that even had she been able to Melody would have refused.   
  
He could just here her now.   
  
"Why try to cheat mother nature-she'll win in the end."   
  
Yes indeed. Why try to cheat. Laying down his spoon, Mathew once again brought his gaze to rest on Anne. She had finished most of what was in her bowl, and was busily engaged in chasing the last few flakes through the milky soup that still remained. She was his daughter. For better or worse, she didn't know the extent of their blood relationship, but he did. Today was Sunday. His shuttle left the space port on Friday. In just under a week, Mathew vowed, he would do everything in his power to play the part mother nature had designated for him. Just this once. He might never get another chance.  
  
Melody was having a bit of trouble fitting the dozen roses neatly into the tapered neck of the vase. Exasperated, she allowed the last three to stick out slightly, figuring that there was no point in trying to consider aesthetics as far as this ill fated bouquet was concerned. Frowning, she sat back down at the table and surveyed her now lukewarm oatmeal. She toyed with the idea of throwing it out and filling her bowl anew from the still warm contents of the pot, but knowing such an action to be wasteful she swallowed bravely and began to eat the now bland and exceedingly lumpy porridge.   
  
Just as she took the first mouthful, Mathew laid down his spoon with a decided air of emphasis. He glanced at Anne for a moment, then over at her. Melody saw something in his eyes-something she hadn't seen there in many years.   
  
"So," he said. "Who wants to go to the circus?"  
  
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Sorry this took me so long to post-midterms. (shudders) It's not even that long, either. But the next chapter will be up next week...I've already gotten it planned out. So please, be patient. I would really appreciate reviews of this chapter. I'm afraid it's either too trite or too short or something...I wanted to get it up, but in all honesty I'm not really satisfied with it. If even just five of you guys tell me what you think, that'd help. And I mean new people-some of you'all are just great for reviewing. Thanks.   
  
Disclaimer: Oh, just go read the one in the prologue. This thing took me so long to write I'm not gonna waste my time thinking up something cute to say.   
  
Oh yeah, and for those of you who couldn't tell, I ABSOLUTELY HATE oatmeal!   
  
Domo Arigato,   
Lady Akemi 


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